Mad about Hogwarts
by Writeforyourlives
Summary: Something is not right about Harry Dursley. His parents send him off to the doctor for examination. Where is the truth in all of this madness? Is Harry truly going mad, or is he the victim of covered up domestic violence - or is there really such a thing as "Hogwarts"? A psychological rewriting of the Harry Potter series.


- Alright there, young Dursley? stated Doctor Gordon.

He looked impatiently at the eleven year old boy sitting across from him in his office. He had known young Dursley for nine years now. The boy raised his head ever so slightly and glanced at the doctor. Doctor Gordon sighed. There was nothing that could be done about the massive scar on the boy's forehead, but you'd think at least the Dursleys would have gotten him a pair of new glasses. He looked at the bit of tape sitting between Harry's eyes and frowned with a curious look in his eyes.

The boy's parents were worried. But something wasn't right. Young mr. Dursley was awfully quiet, wore rather torn and baggy clothes, and his glasses were broken. The question was, however: Was this a case for the social services or the psychriatric ward?

- So, Harry. Your parents are awfully worried about you. Your mother told me that you...

- They're not my parents! Harry suddenly blurted out. The doctor held his breath, inspecting Harry's every move.

- What makes you think that, son?

The doctor had known Harry since he was a baby. Since the day Mr. Dursley, looking rather shaken and pale, had handed him a two year old Harry with a bruise and a cut on his forehead. He had fallen out of the crib, Mr. Dursley had left the side open in an unattentive moment. Mr. Dursleys face had been full of regret. That was how Harry had gotten that scar. It rather looked like a lightning symbol, the doctor mused. It looked peculiar. Almost artistic. Yes, artistic was the right word. He had done a fine job at stitching that boy's forehead up. He had made art out of accident.

The doctor became aware that he was smiling and made sure to pull all of the muscles in his face into a stern frown.

- Now, Harry. Your mum says you're hiding in the cupboard on some days, and that you don't sleep at night, that you sometimes sneak around the house. She also says you talk an awful lot about letters and... owls? What's going on, Harry? Hmm?" The doctor spread his hands out as if to part some sea and welcome Harry home. He had a look of concern on his face. "Out with it, my boy."

Harry's skinny figure seemed to only diminish as the doctor spoke. But he was certainly listening, Mr. Gordon noted with a content smile. Mr. Gordon knew he was good at getting his patients to open up. Harry looked at him with piercing green eyes. A bit eerie, really; the way they reminded him of Harry's aunt, Lily. Mr. Gordon sighed. What would she think, if she could see Harry now. She had always cared deeply for the boy. Poor soul.

Harry looked down. Bit his lower lip. Doctor Gordon thought he saw tears welling up in his eyes. Then Harry spoke:

- They're not my parents, sir. They can't be. They make me sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. There are so many spiders, and dust. Harry cringed. - But Dudley (Harry gritted his teeth) - Dudley has _two _bedrooms! All to himself! Do they sound like they would be my parents to you, sir?" Harry finished, looking Doctor Gordon firmly in the eye.

Doctor Gordon frowned. He was beginning to worry. The Dursleys certainly were Harry's parents, but what if what Harry was saying was true? What if Harry was being neglected at home, and this was only the tip of the iceberg, the part he had actually dared to speak of? What was the boy _not _telling him? The doctor began to fear that, after this interview was over, it would turn out that calling social services would be the best idea. What if it turned out that Harry had been neglected, beaten, or worse? What if it turned out that he, Doctor Gordon, should have called social services _years_ ago, when two year old Harry had first arrived in his clinic with a purple-blue bruise and a cut on his forehead, a panicking and remorseful Mr. Dursley holding him in his arms, asking him to fix it? Mr. Gordon felt dizzy. He had only been employed as a doctor for four years back then, and everybody makes mistakes at some point during their career, but... Mr. Gordon did not like to think of himself as someone who makes mistakes.

Doctor Gordon swallowed. His palms were sweaty. The importance of this conversation was dawning on him.

- I understand why you might feel that way, Harry. Honestly, I do. My brother used to get all the good stuff, too; he got to play junior soccer with different teams across the country, he got the bigger room... But none of these things make him any less my brother or my parents any less my parents. Your parents _love _you, Harry!" the doctor agitated, smiling his best compassionate smile. He decided to leave out the part where he admitted how much he secretly loathed his brother, who had always been the perfect son.

Harry looked down.

The doctor smiled. He was quite proud of the speech he had just performed. He felt he really _saw _Harry. He knew how important that was: Seeing. Listening. He tapped his pen on the file in front of him, Harry's file, wondering what would happen next.

- So. What about the owls and the letters, that your mum spoke of, hmm?

Harry looked up, as if waking from a dream. Doctor Gordon thought he caught a glimpse of hope in Harry's face. He looked eager.

- Someone has been sending me letters, sir! _Hundreds_ of them! At first I thought it was a mistake, it was just the one letter, and the Dursleys, they kept it from me, they stole it! But then the letters kept coming, and I knew it wasn't a mistake, they started flying down the chimney. It drove the Dursleys mad for a while. And now, the owls have started following me around, trying to deliver my letter to me, but the Dursleys, they won't let me read it, they think the owls are _weird_. The hate everything that's weird.

Harry paused, watching the doctor. Doctor Gordon nodded. Harry leaned in across the desk:

- To tell you the truth, I like the owls. I think they like me.

Harry paused, holding his breath. Then he took a slightly creased white envelope out from his pocket.

- Sir, he whispered, I managed to get one of the letters from an owl in the parking lot while Mr. Dursley was using the rest room, out there. Harry tilted his head towards the door, but his eyes did not leave Mr. Gordon's eyes. He did not blink: You can't tell Mr. Dursley, he said firmly. - Promise me.

Doctor Gordon nodded. - Yes, Harry, everything said between us is confidential, he replied in his most relaxed voice. Mr. Gordon was nervous, wanting to make the right decision. If he was to put this kid through psychiatric treatment or anything of the sort, he wanted to be dead sure that Harry Dursley did in fact struggle with mental illness, and not abusive parents. Who would he have to call – social services or psychiatric ward? Did he fail all those years ago? No, it couldn't be. Maybe. No. He seemed calm and composed, but sweat was starting to show on his brow, as he continued.

- Now. Tell me, Harry. If I read that letter of yours, what do you imagine I might find? What does it say?

A kind of silence fell in the room. The doctor and his patient looked each other in the eye. The sound of the clock ticking, the distant clattering of chairs from the waiting room, the muffled sound of the phones ringing.

"It says I'm going to Hogwarts."


End file.
